


Monarch

by Rhoverty



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Black Mask Makes a Cameo, Cussing, Father-Son Feel, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Impalement, Joker - Freeform, More Hurt Than Comfort, My First AO3 Post, One Shot, Other, So Does Joker, Whump, cursing, cuz why not, ish, its all the same, speaking of, theres gunna be pain, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoverty/pseuds/Rhoverty
Summary: After spending some time with Black Mask, our favorite anti-hero has found himself in quite the predicament.Like a butterfly on a board, he’s at the mercy of one sadistic mobster and a certain psychoic clown - one of which may be his only hope for escape.





	Monarch

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Yes. Welcome. 
> 
> If I’m to be honest here, the summary makes this sound a lot more dramatic than I actually think it is. But I like it and it sounds kinda poetic. I guess.
> 
> Anyways, since - as the tags suggested - this is my first post. Hopefully its okay. Or great! But okay works to.
> 
> Side Note - Any and all mistakes are mine as I don’t have a beta (yet. Keyword). I have gone through and edited, sorta kinda. Well, if you count going through, adjusting this and that, fixing a few things here and there, drabbling around, etc. However, it has by no means been seen by another set of eyes to pick it apart. 
> 
> Nonetheless. Enjoy!

“You see, Sonny. You don’t _get_ to kill him.” He sneered. The usual stock of a grin fixated into a frown, makeup twisted in sharp angles and curving with winkles. “ _That_ was **my** joke and you’re going to ruin the punchline!”

The hollowed eyes of the mask stared back into the clowns twisted green orbs. There was something hidden behind the curtain of madness that pooled into the madman’s gaze, something unexplainable and terrifying - possessively so.

“Or what?” Sionis snapped in return, pride devoting from turning down.

With a wrong choice of words, a blade was slicing through the leather of his mask quicker than non-lidded orbs could blink. A stream of crimson seeped past the distortion and dripped down onto his pristine white collar.

“My, you ask a _many_ of questions.” The clown grinned, white cakes pulling from wrinkles as they fitted back into a more natural setting of the madman’s fixtures.

“How about I settle on answering them through scars.” And another blade was sailing through the other side of the leather.

Staring past the sheen of sweat soaked locks that obscured his vision, he watched the two go at it like a pack of wild animals. They tore at each other, fists bawled and twisting into the psychopaths face, smearing the makeup and tainting the black leather. Blades tore through the cloth of his suit while the purple lapels of the overcoat were bleeding into dark patches. Sometimes, the vigilante forgot just how frighteningly strong the rouges could be when they wanted to. The Joker with his lanky build but suicidal actions and Black Mask with his height and bulk, using brute strength over basic strategy. Where The Joker put himself in the fray of the fight, Black Mask kept some semblance of distance.

Which ever way they fought, he pushed past it and averted his attention toward some trail of escape. Now would be the best opportunity with the two maniacs occupied with each other.

However.

Every shuffle of movement sent new spikes of agony tearing across his veins. Small whimpers pealed through the layer of tape over his mouth. The strip tugged at his lips and the fuzz along his cheeks. He tried to move his arms, anything to help him crawl away and toward those elevator doors across the room. But they wouldn’t budge, only sending hot coals across his skin and scrambling his thoughts with tight tendrils of pain.

They were bound. Bound all the way up to his biceps and cinching so tight he could no longer feel the tips of his fingers. He tried his legs - unbound but almost completely useless with the slashes tearing across his thighs and the blade embedded into the back of one of his knees. Nonetheless, he pushed past the pain.

_Better_ _than_ _a_ _crowbar_ , _eh_.

And inched toward the elevator. He was most likely leaving behind an obvious trail of evidence, especially considering the amount of blood that was leaving his body in crimson streams. Sionis would no doubt beat him again for staining his carpet. Probably find a more creative way to break his body and cut into his skin. The man also took some kind of sick enjoyment when it came to inflicting pain, and he prided himself on his creativity.

At this point, he could only wonder if he’d actually live long enough to go through the mobsters beating again. What with the obnoxious amount of blood pumping out of his body and the rising panic that cradled his mind with its cold embrace. Even if he felt like death would be the best alternative to the mans sadistic humor, he didn’t actually want to die yet.

_But_ , his only saving grace was the clown - as much as he absolutely _hated_ it. Unlike the rest of the rouges who, probably, weren’t so quick to catch up - expect Harley, maybe - the Joker had made it very clear that the Red Hood wasn’t to die by anyone else’s hand except his own.

_Again_.

With that in mind, he knew the moment Sionis figured it out and made a whole display of killing _The_ _Red_ _Hood_ , the clown would come running. And just like the showman the manic is, he waited until the final act to make his debut.

Taking a tentative glance over his shoulder, he saw the two at some sort of standstill. He wasn’t entirely sure. With his blurred vision – from the haze of pain of coat of blood that was caked along his brows and dripping into his eyes – not much of anything could be taken into account by that they were expressing. Besides the indications that the two of them had stopped fighting and the clown was chuckling, he chalked it up as some sort of temporary standby where the two of them just stared at each other. However, something didn’t feel right. It forced his brows to knit in confusion - crusting the blood dried patches of blood.

Then they were at it again, snapping retorts and colorful profanities at one another artfully. Once again the two fought like a pair of tribal dancers, ready to sacrifice _yours_ _truly_ to their devil.

Nonetheless, he took that as a sign to keep moving, well, until laughter graded against his ringing ears and a gunshot went off right next to his head. As undignified as it was, he flinched at the sound - so violently his whole body ached with the reaction.

Suddenly a hand was wrapping around his head and slamming his face into the ground - a hitched yelp slipping past the tape.

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird? Trying to run away from your good ole _Uncle_ _J_?” The manic breathed into his ear, grinning gleefully - like a child on Christmas morning.

Those gloves fingers tangled into his hair, yanking his head from the carpet. A pained groan slipped past his throat. Another hand was gripping his chin, pulling his head to face the clowns sadistic grin.

“What happened to ya, kiddo? Looks like someone made your face into a punchline. Get it?” He laughed. That same laugh that haunted his every dream and twisted nightmare. It sent his form quivering - but he forced himself to blame it on the pain, not the psychopath grinning an inch from his face.

That didn’t stop the light trail of tears to escape the corner of his eye and cascade down his cheek. A white thumb swiped it away with ease.

“Awe, don’t cry pumpkin.” He frowned. “I’m not gunna kill you _today_. No no no, that would be too easy. It just wouldn’t be as _hilarious_ as it was the first time.”

The clowns grin returned in an instant as another laugh pulled across his tone. Those hands entwined within his locks gave them a sharp tug, jerking his head with the motion. He winced, lids twitching and brows scrunching.

“Now!” He dropped his head, ignoring the delicious whimper that came from the boy, and jumped to his feet. “You stay right there while I go make a call. Okay, sweetie?”

He toned into the muffled reply before sauntering towards the fireplace - stepping over a white suit and its growing splotch along the carpet. He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the boy intently.

To his surprise the gangster didn’t do much in terms of physical torture. The kiddo was still breathing - laboriously so, but breathing nonetheless. Obviously making a mess of his uniform and the rooms flooring.

_I_ _thought_ _I_ _taught_ _you_ _better_ _than_ _that_. _Sigh_ , _I_ _suppose_ _you_ _can_ _only_ _discipline_ _a_ _child_ _through_ _beatings_. _Crowbar_ _anyone_?

However, even through the mess he’s made of himself, he’s still trying to crawl away. Towards the elevator, he notes. Taking a gander back toward the fire place, he took the elegantly curved handle of the spiked iron and trailed back toward the boy.

“I told you to stay. How many times are you going to keep ignoring me, kiddo?” He sighed, raising the iron into the air, hovering it over the center of the boys back.

_Just_ _above_ _the_ _liver_ _and_ _just_ _below_ _the_ _lungs_.

“I guess if you can’t beat it into them the first time,” The grin twisted across his face. “ _Force_ _it_ _a_ _second_ _time_.”

And he thrusted the barbed metal into the vigilantes back. It went through his body with ease, embedding into the floor beneath him, anchoring him in place as he let out a muffled scream.

The boy jerked for a moment before collapsing to the floor, tremors tearing across his body as he buried his sobs into the carpet. Crimson formed from the wound, staining the dark material of his uniform and forming a new pool beneath him.

“Gotta thank the builders for wooden floors, eh.” A wheeze of a chuckled crawling up the clowns throat before turning into grading laughter that echoed across the spacious office.

“Alrighty, well. I’ll be right back pumpkin, don’t you go anywhere now!” And with that the clown was gone, door slamming behind his leave.

His body trembled, sweat building along his brow as blood coated his tongue with its thick iron taste. He needed to get the tape off his mouth, he needed to breathe. He was going to choke on his blood of it doesn’t get taken off.

As that panic scorched his body, he tried to ignore it, rationally think this through. But out could he? He tried to shift again only to have sharp electric pains burst across his body and pierce into his chest. He couldn’t move, not with the knife still going through the back of his knee and this fucking _harpoon_ pinning him to the ground like a damn butterfly. He felt... He felt...

_Helpless_.

_Vulnerable_.

_And_ **_Scared_**.

By god was he scared. The what if’s tainting any hope for escape and rescue. It overrode the rational part of his mind, corrupting it with those terrifying thoughts of betrayal and abandonment. He wasn’t going to die.

_No_.

_Oh_ , _no_ _no_ _no_.

The clown wouldn’t let him. Even if he was fucking shish kabob-ed with the floor. That son of a bitch wouldn’t let him die a second time. Even said it himself. Not like this. He’d make it a big show, get the Bats attention, hell, maybe even the League – either one, it wouldn’t matter. But the nutcase would make his life a living hell _then_ he’d actually kill him. How? That, he didn’t want to know.

It wasn’t soon after, the realization dawned on him.

He’ll be back. He said he was gunna go make a phone call. Then he’d be back. He’d be back to do who knows what. If he returns in a bad more – or even a good mood – who knows what he’ll do to him. Beat him within an inch of his life. Talk him to near death. Stand in the shadows and just stare at him until he eventually passed out from – everything. He’d-he’d-

The window across from him - the one that looked over the city - shattered when something came crashing through it with surprising ease. His body tensed, as he tried hide his face into the carpet.

His body quaked when a shadow loomed over him, blocking out any kind of light that came from the city. Maybe he was already back and the window was just a pigment of his imagination. The false hope that someone was here to rescue him.

“Jason?” It – he – it breathed, breath caught and terror clinging to its tone.

It crouched besides him, hand reaching out. He flinched away, more tremors crawling across his body. He knew the voice, subconsciously knew who it was, but after a night of being beaten and impaled by looming figures didn’t do his rational mind any good.

“Hey...” It – he said, hand gently resting on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re gunna be okay.” He knew that voice, hadn’t heard the way it shook with uncertainty in years. The fatherly concern that crippled its tone was the only thing that forced him to open his eyes and actually take in who they were.

Eyeing the man carefully, he watched as the hand landed on his shoulder while the other reached toward his face and tugged the tape free from his mouth. The sting of its removal failed to pass through his thoughts as the sudden cough and gasp tore across his lips. The thick iron taste that flooded his mouth was now splattered across the carpet and trailing down his chin.

“I-“ Another hack carted across his body, one that sent sharp bolts of pain tearing through his veins and a wheeze to escape his breath.

“I can’t- I can’t. It h’r- It hurts-“

“I know. I know.”

When he tried to move, tried to pull himself up - an action that tore a yelp from his voice and tremor across his form - a hand was forcing his back down as gently as it could.

“Jay, stop. Don’t move. You’ll only make it worse.” The man - Bru-Batman, his mind finally recalled - eased. He knew it was meant to be an order of some kind, but there were emotions tangled inside his tone that betrayed the command.

“Jok-“ He wheezed, resting his forehead against the carpet, eyes tightly shut - the fear of opening them and finding himself alone, abandoned, hurt more that the _thing_ stabbing through his body.

“Joker he- he’s just- he’ll come - he’ll come back.” And now he felt something wet trialing down his cheeks. His mind betrayed him with the sudden panic of emotions flurrying into existence.

Batman was quiet for a moment, glancing toward the door that manic had left from. A sigh brushed his lips as the brows hidden behind the cowl knitted together. There was an emotion rattling his form, one the boy handing recognized ever seeing on the man.

As much as he wished to study it and get to know what his body was expressing, a gloved hand was gently carting through his hair.

“Nightwing, I need you to get to my location. Now.” He ordered into his comm, voice gruff and tight with transfixed emotions.

He didn’t wait for the reply, knew if he didn’t elaborate the elder would no doubt turn up in record time. Hell, he was betting on it as he looked over the boy before him. It sent a sharp pang jolting through his heart at the sight. The sight of his son pinned to the ground by a fire iron jutting out of his back.

Using his thumb to gently brush away the tuff of white locks from his sons forehead, he went to work examining any and all injuries he could deal with immediately.

“Bru-“ A wet cough tore across his sons voice when he tried to talk once more.

“Don’t talk, Jay. You’ll only make it worse.” He reasoned. He didn’t need anything aggravated with unnecessary motions and movements that could be avoided.

“W’t ‘bout...” The boy slurred a new panic beginning to build up into his orbs.

“He’s not going to come back.”

“But-“

“He’s the...” Now he struggled for words. This wasn’t the time for this conversation about the clown. He wasn’t coming back and that’s all his terrified son needed to know at the moment - besides the fact that help is on the way.

“He’s not coming back, Jay.”

—

—

Leaping through the already broken window on the forty-fifth floor was one thing. Stumbling in to find his father knelt on the ground whispering reassuring words to a figure he couldn’t see, was another. It sent his imagination wild at what could possibly have happened.

“B, what...?” His voice trailed as he rounded the man and his eyes blew wide beneath the mask.

There, pinned to the ground, bleeding and whimpering, was his little brother.

“Oh my god, Jason!” And he was by his side in an instant, hands hovering over his body without knowing what to do.

Subconsciously his mind had began to catalog the injuries, which ones needed the most attention in the moment and others that could placed on the back burner until further notice. One of those attention seekers was, undoubtedly, the fire iron jutting out from his body and pinning him to the ground.

“We need to remove _it_ as soon as possible.” Batman began, pulling Nightwing from his horrified trance. “Then attempt to stop the bleeding until we can get him to the cave. I’ve already contacted Leslie, she’s on her way there and Agent A is bringing the Batplane to our location as we speak.”

All the younger could do was nod then turn back to his baby brother. Taking a deep, quivering breath he steeled himself for the process.

“But how do we...” _remove_ _it_ _without_ _hurting_ _him_. _Without_ _him_ _bleeding_ _out_ _or_ _hemorrhaging_. _Without_ _hurting_ _him_ _more_ _than_ _he_ _already_ _is_.

“Breathe.” The elder ordered sternly, determination overriding the terrified father within him. This was no time for panic, panic was the sure way to disaster and inevitably, death. “We need to cut off the top as close to his body as we can. Then pull him off. We don’t have time on our hands at the moment, so as soon as he’s off, use the field sponges to plug the wound. Then we untie him and go from there. Do you understand?” Now he was looking directly at his oldest, gauging his reaction crucially. Nightwing met his gaze.

Taking a breath, on more steady than the last, he jerked a nod.

Batman turned back to his second youngest and brushed a hand through his two toned locks. “Alright, kiddo, I need you to hang in there for us, alright?” Those trauma tainted green orbs looked up into his own through the haze of pain. “We’re going to remove the iron and seal the wound. It’s going to hurt but I can’t have you passing out on us, okay? Can you stay awake for me, chum?”

As his son went to nod, a cough crackle along his lips, one of which scrunched up his face in a fit of agony. His body went as limp as it could, whimpers tampering his breath.

_Breathe_. He told himself, then pulled out a small blow torch and brought it to life. Adjusting its flame to a narrowed bright blue, he began cutting away the expensive brass. Within the few seconds it took to burn through the metal, he flip off the torch. He tucked it away while breaking the bar off and tossing it to the side.

“Alright.” He looked to Dick, watching as the eldest gave a nod in return, gently sliding his hands under his brothers body.

He followed in suit and on the count of three, heaved his body up and off the fire iron – they both tried to ignore the strangle cry that emanated from the boy. Batman pulled his form toward his side of the bar and gently laid him down.

Nightwing was at the ready, pulling out a bulky syringe and thrusting it into the hole of the wound while injecting the cotton pills. They had immediately went to work by expanding and clogging the hole. Seconds ticked by and the bleeding no longer seemed to stem from the boys body as badly.

_One_ _crisis_ _temporarily_ _averted_.

They both allowed themselves the small victory with a relieved sigh. Unfortunately, it was short lived and now they reverted to undoing the binding of tape that was cinching his arms together – his shoulder blades no doubt, grinding against each other. With the quick ease of a batarang, his arms were jerked apart as the stuttered gasp echoed in his lungs.

“Good job, Jay. Great job, great job.” Batman soothed, easing one of his arms onto the floor after cataloging any broken bones – luckily there appearing to be none along either of his arms.

“How’re you doin’, Little Wing?” Dick pipped up, brushing his brothers matted bangs from his face.

The younger winced slightly at the action, a shutter fluttering along his form as his eyes squeezed shut. “H’rts.” Was all he could manage.

“M’sorry. But everything’s gunna be okay. I promise. We’re gunna get you home and all healed up in no time. Promise.” The eldest tried to keep the quivering within his tone hidden. With the lack of reaction from either party, he wasn’t sure how well he’d succeeded.

“We need to go.” Bruce snapped, those emotions tearing across his thoughts and dictating his voice.

His eldest took no heed in the harshness and only glanced at him before returning to soothing his brother. One of which looked to be drifted into unconsciousness.

At this point, all Bruce could do was pray that his son would make it home.

—

—

The world felt fuzzy, muddled and mute of sound as he slowly drifted back into consciousness. He twitched his fingers, their digits tapped along something soft. They felt free, no longer a cold that lacked circulation or twinge of electricity that licked along their tips. It was almost relaxing, until a sharp jolt of pain shifted through his body. Now he was bunching up the cloth and something was pounding against his head. If the world wasn’t mute and blank, then he could imagine it being something as atrocious as beeping.

Something rhythmic, and traumatizing. Such as the faint chuckles turned dark gurgles of laughter that now graded against his mind. The intake of any type of breath was now burning his lungs and aggravating everything. He couldn’t pin point a single area that didn’t hurt. All he felt was _pain_ _pain_ _pain_. Agonizing sparks that flooded his system with hellfire and scorched his nervous. It sent his mind haywire and all he could feel were the remains of old memories that shattered his bones, crushed his body, and broke his soul. The shadows of tall figures towered over him, drowning out the light of hope and twisting it into doubt. Wrenching forgiven justice into hateful revenge. Eventually turning the forgotten hero into the broken villain.

He jerked awake, the soft glow of light tearing into his orbs as he tried to shy away. Then a hand was placed on his arm, the touch feather soft. Its soothing gesture only shifted his focus and he tried to rip his arm away. That action sent sharp spikes of pain across his form, jutting a hitched gasp from his lips and a cough racking his lungs.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay! It’s okay. Jay, you’re fine. You’re safe. Everything’s okay... everything’s gunna be okay...” And the touch was back. It was combing through his hair and holding his hand. He wanted to flinch away from it. He’s had years of people turning hope and love into pain and suffering. His childhood was built on it, his death cemented it, and his return promised it.

However.

This touch felt different.

There was no threat, no falseness, no backlash that usually came with something so reassuring. Something that felt so... _Safe_.

And he leaned into it, curtain of lashes fluttering open and adjusting to the white glow above, honing in on the figure besides him. Through the blurriness he could see them, their face twisted into something calming, a small smile maybe, one that made the pain in his body ease a tad. He noted the black mop of hair and their greying edges, all tangled together like thin strands of yarn. Below were those dark blue orbs, ones that looked to faded for their age.

“ _Dad_ ,” He breathed out in relief, sagging against the sheets and pressing his cheek into the soft pillow, facing his father.

“Hey, chum.” Came the quiet response, and as his vision sharpened – even through the haze of drugs that are bound to be swimming in his system – he noticed the smile widening. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got run o’er by a semi...” He grumbled with knitted brows.

The elder man chuckled for a moment before carting his fingers through his sons hair again. “Why don’t you go back to sleep, kiddo. We’ve got you on a lot of pain killers.” Then he frowned slightly. “We had a hard time trying to figure out which ones would actually work...” Those words tasted bitter in his mouth as the man scolded himself.

“Fentanyl...”

“Hmm?” His younger son adjusted slightly –burying his face into the pillow some more – before continuing, his words slightly slurred. “Fen–tanyl. On’y thing tha’ seem ta work.”

His father’s brows knitted, disapprovingly or concerned, he was to exhausted to care. “Those are highly addictive, kiddo...”

Jason mumbled his agreements. “Don’ take ‘em ver’ of’en... though...”

Begrudgingly Bruce sighed as he watched his boy for a moment.

He wasn’t at all surprised when he began to fall asleep – only at how long he managed to stay awake. No matter, he took this moment to lean over, brushing his sons bangs from his face and plant a kiss to his forehead.

“Love ya, kiddo.”

He leaned back, adjusting himself in his chair, content to just sit and watch his second eldest sleep and heal. But he kept hold of his hand as he sat back and just when he was about to slip his eyes closed he was able to hear the faintest;

“You too...”

 

~ _Fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> You’re still here? Awesome!
> 
> How was it? Good, bad, terrible, fantastic, needs some work, etc.? 
> 
> Constructive criticism is, by all means, welcomed! Let me know how it was and I’ll be sure to change/adjust in the future. Cause isn’t that what being a writer is about? We learn from our mistakes, however, we’re unable to do that unless someone points them out to us. 
> 
> Well, since this is my first story, I do have plenty of plans for the future - most of which involve our lovely Jaybird here. So yeah...
> 
> Alright, enough of my ramblings. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> P.S. The sponges I was talking about are called XSTAT Sponges and they’re used in the military to plug up bullet wounds. 
> 
> P.P.S. I don’t know how obvious it was, but I have this headcanon that the Joker is kinda - what’s the term... - possessive, I guess, over the second robin. Just cause he takes his death as one of his most iconic jokes. It was the one that practically broke Batman... So, he gets a little (a lotta) upset when someone else tries to take that from him (I’m also pretty sure-ish that I’m not the only one who thinks this either). And I think it’s a really interesting plot device as well.
> 
> -Rhoverty


End file.
